


Glass

by CrayolaDinosaurs



Series: Shattered [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Angst, Codependency, Eventual Smut, Guilt, Implied Johnlock, Letters, M/M, Occasionally It's Kind of Fluffy, POV Alternating, POV First Person, POV Third Person Limited, Post Reichenbach, but not really, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-14
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-18 16:21:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 12,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrayolaDinosaurs/pseuds/CrayolaDinosaurs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson was not the only person Sherlock left behind.</p><p>Gregory Lestrade used to be a good detective, a fully functioning member of society, an independent man. Now, well, he was still those things, but different. He was fragile, wounded, broken.</p><p>Mycroft Holmes used to be coldly intellectual, uncompromising, the secret behind the government. Now, he was still those things, but different. He was vulnerable, cracked, weak.</p><p>The collision of two objects as shattered as this can only cause damage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Megg33k](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megg33k/gifts).



> Written for MystradeDoodles' Mystrade and Mormor Incentive Initiative.  
> This story goes back and forth between Greg and Mycroft.  
> Greg's segments are in First Person. They're letters written to Sherlock.  
> Mycroft's are in Third Person Limited.  
> Some chapters will be super short. Some will be much longer.  
> I'm going to attempt to post every 4-5 days until I've caught up to what I've written.  
> I've already written more than 10K words on this, just so you know.

Jesus Christ, Sherlock… ~~I just~~ I’m at a loss.

I’m so sorry. I should have believed in you. I should have told Donovan and Anderson to bugger off. I let the job take over; let it dictate what I did. I went against my gut instinct; all my instincts. And now you’re gone. Poof. Fucking over.

You’re a wanker, you know that? How dare you. All the people that still needed you to save them and you decided to go and let what idiots like Anderson thought about you just...

I hate you. I hate you so much. You absolute bastard. I’m going to miss you. More than I could ever express. And I hate you for that.

I shouldn’t be drinking right now. I know it. I needed something to keep me from the fags. You would have told me I was being stupid. I am stupid. Trading lung cancer for cirrhosis. You would have sneered. Sentiment. Because it is all sentiment. I cared about you, you daft git. You and that fucking coat. But you’re not fucking here anymore, are you?

And it’s all my fault.

It's my fault.


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft stood in the corridor at St. Bart’s, head back against the wall, eyes closed. He was smoking a cigarette, ignoring the dirty and scandalised looks he was receiving, letting the ashes fall freely. There was a tightness in his chest, a dry ache that he could not escape. He exhaled, releasing a fresh cloud of smoke into the sterile air. He brought his eyes to the man pacing in front of him. Six steps to the left. Turn. Six steps to the right. Turn. Six steps to the left. He took another drag as his eyes followed the man. Average height. Black jacket, jeans. There was blood on his hands, small smudges on the pads of his fingers. Dried, at least an hour old. He exhaled slowly as the man began running his hands through his dusty blonde hair. He turned again and Mycroft sighed. A jumper. This man was wearing a jumper. How old was he, 97? Granted, it was a well cut jumper, deep navy in colouring and not nearly as bad as the oatmeal one he occasionally wore. John really could do with a new wardrobe.

John’s face was rigid and closed off as he paced. Mycroft lit a second cigarette with the final embers of his first and stubbed the remaining butt out on his umbrella handle. He took a long drag, letting his eyes fall closed once more. The waiting was terrible. The outcome was inevitable. No one could survive that fall. No one. Sherlock’s intelligence would not have saved him this time. So, why the struggle? Why the fight for a life that no longer was? And why, why with the incessant waiting? Mycroft sighed.

John stopped pacing and Mycroft crushed his cigarette with his shoe as a doctor walked in. “I’m sorry, we did...”

Mycroft ignored the repetitive platitudes, ignored John as he began to shout. He turned on his heel and left the hospital, Anthea falling into step behind him.

“I’ve arranged everything to your exact specifications, sir.”

Mycroft didn’t respond.


	3. Chapter 3

Fuck you, yeah?

You left us behind. You decided that your reputation was more important than abandoning the people who cared about you.

I saw John a couple of days ago. He looked haunted, lost, broken. You did that.

Bollocks, I’m sorry. I don’t blame you. It’s not your fault. It’s ours. It’s mine.

We were the ones who made you believe that your brain was the only reason we kept you around. We were the ones who forced you to care more about your reputation than those that could be hurt by keeping it.

So, John, yeah, that’s on me.

Your wake is tomorrow. Apparently, they buried you days ago. Private funeral. Your fucking ‘last wish.’

That wasn’t your last wish. Your post-mortem plans were probably the farthest thing from your thoughts in your final moments. So no, that couldn’t have been your last wish.

I bet your last sodding wish was, ‘Dear God, let me live.’ Or maybe, ‘Let someone love me enough to save me.’

And He didn’t. And neither did we.

We didn't save you.

I didn’t save you.

I didn’t even help you.


	4. Chapter 4

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Mycroft took the proffered hand instead of closing his long thin fingers around the offending throat. How many times had those words been uttered here, 100? 150? They weren’t trying to make him feel better. They were making themselves feel better because not one of them, not a single one, gave a flying fuck about the fact that Sherlock was dead. In fact, some of the guests, most of the guests, including some distant relations and family friends, were probably celebrating his brother’s demise; the man who’d offended and degraded all had finally got what was coming to him. And Mycroft was tired. Utterly exhausted.

“Thank you so much. He’d have been so happy you came.” Mycroft returned in a sickly sweet voice, being sure to add a small tremble, so people would think he was ‘properly’ affected.

Mycroft slipped from his spot by the mantle, dodging his least favourite cousin. He needed something to take his mind off of this, something to distract him from the loss of Sherlock. There was no one there who would be sufficient. They were strangers, not only to him, but to the memories of his brother; interlopers on the grief he felt, the guilt he hoarded. John had refused to come; he remained at Baker Street, no doubt staring blankly into the depths of Sherlock’s chair, scouring the stitching for answers he wouldn’t find, letting despair and anger and hopelessness wash over him. Mrs. Hudson claimed poor health; she would have taken one of her herbal soothers by now, absenting herself from the misery of the day. None of Sherlock’s allies had come. No one here cared.

He sneaked into the kitchen noting the piles of casserole dishes on the counters, meaningless entrees, a sea of trite nothingness, overtaking his kitchen. He looked them over, contemplating, wanting more, and then he saw it, a small yellow cake at the back of one of the mounds of food. Mycroft nearly cheered in triumph before he noticed it was lemon cake. He sighed.

“It will have to do.”

He was pulling out a fork when he heard the small sniffle. His eyes flicked over to the man he hadn’t even noticed sitting at the kitchen table. The man sniffed again, tears running freely down his face, fists clenched on the dusky salmon placemat, eyes unfocused as they stared into the hideous flower arrangement at the centre of the table. Mycroft knew the man. Well, he knew who he was; they’d met briefly, once. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of New Scotland Yard. 47. A silver-fox, some might say, though, perhaps not right now. He certainly wasn’t a very attractive crier.

Lestrade slammed his fist into the table, upsetting the vase, spilling water over the warm teak wood. He released a miserable chuckle, but didn’t move. The abrupt sound caused Mycroft to jump a little and he hastily put the cake down on the counter, patting it softly. He approached the man slowly, with something if possessed by anyone else might have looked like concern, but with Mycroft was calculated caution. He leaned casually against the table, his hip almost touching Lestrade’s wrist.

Mycroft cleared his throat and picked lint from his perfect suit. “Caring is not an advantage, Detective Inspector.”

Lestrade didn’t look up. He didn’t acknowledge Mycroft’s words, instead choosing to worry the threading in the placemat loose. Mycroft pushed off the table and moved to cross back to the cake he’d left behind. Lestrade’s gruff voice stopped him.

 “Going through life without risking the breaking of your heart is like walking around with your eyes closed, Mr. Holmes.” Mycroft arched an eyebrow in surprise, turning back. Lestrade raised his reddened eyes to Mycroft’s. “You may miss some atrocities, but you miss a hell of a lot of beauty.”

Mycroft stared, open-mouthed. Lestrade turned away, watching the spreading water soak into the napkins. Mycroft stepped forward as a tear ran down Lestrade’s cheek. Lestrade’s eyes flew to Mycroft’s as he placed a hesitant hand on Lestrade’s face, letting the pad of his thumb brush the offending drop away, feeling the beginnings of stubble on otherwise soft skin. Mycroft tilted his head as he watched Lestrade’s tongue dart out to moisten his slightly chapped lips and inhale a shaky breath. He lowered himself slowly until he was kneeling next to the man, the only man there who cared anywhere close to as much as he did. Their eyes locked, now level. Lestrade’s eyes were flicking back and forth unable to focus on both of Mycroft’s at once, a pained longing in his gaze.

“This is a terrible idea,” Lestrade whispered, teeth resting on his lower lip, slight panic entering the emotional swirling in his eyes.

Mycroft ran his thumb over Lestrade’s mouth, releasing the trapped lip, nodding slowly. “Quite.” He moved closer, their breath mingling, eye contact still unbroken. Both men’s mouths opened slightly as their lips barely touched, eyes finally falling closed. Two tongues reached out tentatively, tips brushing and caressing. Mycroft felt Lestrade crumple as tears ran anew, and he was being pulled closer, the kiss deepening. He surrendered to the sensation, running soothing hands over Lestrade’s back.


	5. Chapter 5

I went to your wake yesterday. It was awful. You’d have hated it, of that I’m sure. People you neither knew nor cared about, en masse. Not one person you wouldn’t have insulted or berated or just flat out ignored. And they circled like vultures for scraps of the Holmes family’s attention.

They felt no actual sympathy. They hated you, most people did, come to think of it. But at an event meant to celebrate your life and soothe those you’d left...

It was a mockery of everything you’d done. I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t stand in a crowded room, surrounded by people who didn’t care, and feel so alone. I hid in the kitchen and I cried. I feel silly telling you this, God, you’d have had a fit knowing I was wasting my time with emotions like this, but...

Damn it, Sherlock, I miss you.

And then, actually you probably don’t want to know this, but since you’re dead, I’ll tell you anyway.

Mycroft came in. He walked over and leaned against the table where I was sitting. Said ‘Caring isn’t an advantage.’ I about clocked him, thought about telling him to go choke on one of the ridiculously expensive ornaments that decorated the house, thought about telling him there were plenty of people ready to lick his bootstraps in the foyer and to leave me to my misery in the kitchen. I didn’t.

Told him something, I don’t even remember what I said, and he tilted his head at me. Probably confused by the emotions on my face or something. But then he was next to me, lowered to my level, and he was touching my face. I’ve never believed in the ‘spark’ people talk about. Bollocks, in my opinion. Always thought it was invented as an excuse to ignore someone you weren’t interested in, but I felt it. Pure electricity.

We seemed to agree that it was an awful terrible idea, but then our lips touched and we were kissing. I kissed your brother. At your wake. What was I thinking? I kissed your brother in the kitchen at your wake...

And I was crying. Bloody hell, I was crying. And he was... comforting. His lips, his hands, his arms; they never stopped, never let me go; they were all trying to soothe me.

We ended up in his bedroom. And he fucked me. And it was slow and quiet and just what I needed. I would’ve thought it’d be awkward, I’m pretty sure I cried the whole time, but it wasn’t, it really wasn’t, and he kissed away every tear.

And when it was over, I held him. I ran my hands through his gorgeous hair and down his spine. And that’s when he cried.

The mighty Mycroft Holmes, cornerstone of the British government, at least according to you, cried because his baby brother was gone. Kept saying it was his job to protect you and that he hadn’t.

I pulled him closer, kissed his forehead, and told him that none of us had. We’d let you down. He buried his head in my chest and we cried together until we fell asleep.

I probably wouldn’t believe this myself; I’d probably think it was a strangely vivid dream brought on by exhaustion, alcohol, and guilt, if he wasn’t still entwined around me, sleeping.

I’m positive this is still a terrible idea. It’ll never work, it really can’t work, but right now, I really don’t care.


	6. Chapter 6

Something tickled against Mycroft’s chin. His eyes tightened and his cheeks twitched in his sleep. There was warmth against his chest, wrapped in his arms, and it lessened slightly the pain in his heart. The tickle continued and Mycroft began to stir gently. His legs were tangled with someone else’s; there was hot breath across his left shoulder, and there was what could only be a hand curled tightly at the small of his back. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. The corners of Mycroft’s mouth rose infinitesimally as he scratched gently at the base of Lestrade’s skull. _Gregory Lestrade._ The name rolled in his head. He buried his nose in the hair that had awoken him, his other hand running down the broad, muscled back. He traced his fingers over Lestrade’s spine. _Gregory._ He smiled to himself and his eyes opened. _Gregory, indeed._ He counted the vertebrae as his fingers rolled over them, enjoying the new closeness when Gregory snuggled into him. His hand slipped down to the shapely arse now covered by his own sheets. He let it rest there as his thumb explored the jutting hip. He continued following the curve of Gregory’s bum, running one finger along the juncture of thigh and rear, smirking when the hand at his back flattened and contracted, the nails digging into skin.

Gregory was rubbing his nose into Mycroft’s sternum, pushing his hips forward as he stretched in a way that was unintentionally sexual and not the least bit unpleasant. Mycroft felt a kiss just beneath his Adam’s apple. He, in turn, placed a kiss at Gregory’s hairline.

“Good morning.” Gregory’s voice was rough from sleep.

Mycroft stilled abruptly, the words echoing in his mind. And just as quickly, he relaxed, tightening his embrace, hands clutching at Gregory’s back. “I suppose it is, considering the circumstances.” He felt Gregory’s head fall to his chest and the arm around him pulled him even closer as soothing kisses were placed along his collarbone.

“I’m so sorr--”

“Don’t. Not you. Just don’t.”

And much to his surprise, Gregory didn’t. Their eyes met; Gregory nodded and kissed him softly, and Mycroft allowed a small smile. There was something about Gregory that quieted the raging emotion within, something easy, something natural. Mycroft pulled him closer and kissed him again, wondering vaguely if something this inherently awkward should feel so right, if he should care that it did, if Gregory could feel it too. And then Gregory was pulling away and climbing out of bed. Mycroft sat up, doing his best to hide his confusion. Had he done something wrong? Did it matter? Would Gregory be coming back? Did he want him to? Mycroft tried to rein in his reeling thoughts as he watched Gregory collect his clothes and get dressed. His thoughts would not be contained, and when Greg turned towards him, undone tie hanging from his neck, Mycroft looked like a lost child. Mycroft watched, hugging his knees as Gregory sighed and walked over to him. He looked away when Gregory’s knee touched the mattress, but Gregory, it seemed, was not deterred.

There was a soft kiss on his cheek before Gregory began to speak. “I have to go. Police work never ends you know, and I’m sure you have some things requiring your attention.”

Mycroft nodded jerkily, unable to explain the tightening in his chest. The shards that he had felt in his heart yesterday were re-emerging, stabbing and stinging the soft spots of his heart. The temporary balm provided by a companionable presence was gone, and more pain, the throbbing ache of loneliness and soul-wearying grief, took its place. He felt rather than heard Gregory’s second sigh. Then there was Gregory’s forehead pressing against his temple, the brush of Gregory’s nose at his cheekbone, the scrape of stubble and the drag of lips as Gregory began to speak.

“I would love to take you out for dinner tonight, though. If you have the time, that is.”

Mycroft didn’t look at him. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the frightening calm that spread through him at the thought of more time. He nodded almost imperceptibly and fought against the tremble in his voice. “I’ll have Anthea check and rearrange my schedule. She’ll contact you later this afternoon.”

“I look forward to it.”

Mycroft chanced a glance and saw Gregory grinning at him, a bright smile that made him feel like he was being let in on a fabulous secret, being allowed access to a delightful mystery. The sparkle in Greg’s eyes was lifting a veil to a world of strange, enchanting, and uneasy happiness. He felt another unfamiliar sensation in his chest, a wild pounding, combined with an unusual fluttering in his stomach before he was being kissed again. Then, he watched, wide-eyed, as Greg, already pulling his phone from his pocket, turned and walked from the room.


	7. Chapter 7

Mycroft rolled his eyes as the diatribe continued through the phone at his ear. He hated Mr. Sargsyan, the Armenian Prime Minister. He almost regretted his helping hand in his rise to power, but strangely enough, that election had been very significant. It had managed to stave off political upheaval that had been brewing in many eastern European nations, and as such, Mycroft was really quite proud of the invisible manipulation.

“Mr. Holmes, you will do this. I know how--”

“No, Mr. Sargsyan, I will not. You may think I need you, but you have served your purpose. Never forget, it was I who put you in power and I could have you deposed with a quirk of my eyebrow should I so choose.”

Mr. Sargsyan made a sound that vaguely resemble a cat choking on its own tongue. Mycroft checked his watch, 7:03. He had dinner with Gregory at 7:30. As the spluttering continued, Mycroft signed a few documents pertaining to the fiscal security of the nation and organized the piles of paperwork on his desk, Anthea would file them later.

“Tigran, believe it or not, I have more important things to do than listen to you try to form coherent speech. So, if you don’t mind, I believe you have a government to run, and if I’m not mistaken, which we both know I am not, quite the rebellion brewing. Good luck, and have a wonderful day.”

He hung up abruptly, rubbing his face in annoyance. He stood quickly and grabbed his coat, walking out of his office to find the car already waiting for him.

Mycroft slid in and the car left the curb. His fingers began to tap lightly on his thigh, taking on a rhythm. They played Shostakovich, his thoughts racing as his finger flew absently over the invisible piano on his leg. If he were anyone else, the motion would be called out as a sign of nervousness, but he was Mycroft Holmes. While he couldn’t calm his thoughts, his face was a cool mask. His heart may have been racing, his stomach, fluttering, but he was as outwardly composed as always. And why wouldn’t he be? He was having dinner with a man he’d basically met the night before, a man he wouldn’t have deemed important enough to remember his name if it hadn’t been for the constant interaction he’d had with Sherlock. He was not tied to the man, not strapped with the baggage of the middle-aged detective. He had no emotional stock in the relationship, if he could even call it that, which he wouldn’t because it wasn’t. His stomach wasn’t clenched and his heart didn’t lurch at the thought of missing this meal. Of course it didn’t. He didn’t wonder if ~~Gregory~~ the detective inspector was having the same thoughts. He didn’t question that it was just another dinner. No. He was unruffled, serene. Absolutely.

Anthea had ended up making the reservation, so he could glean no information on Gregory’s intent by the location of the meal. Galvin La Chapelle had always been a favourite, but he itched to see Gregory in a more natural setting. What did that face look like when it was completely content? What did it look like when it laughed? When it was angry? His fingers continued their unconscious recital, reaching the manic climax as the car made its way across town hitting quite possibly every light on the way. Mycroft huffed in frustration, in strange agitation. He felt uncommonly fragile. An ornament of thinnest glass held in the hands of a man, a stranger. He could shine like the brightest crystal or he could shatter. _This is a mistake._ But he was already there. If he had to pick up the tiny, jagged pieces of himself after this, he would. He’d done it before, after all.

He was late. Seven minutes and thirty-seven seconds late. He brushed past the people milling uselessly about the entryway and up to the hostess stand. The hostess, Amelia, was a petite brunette, young, and new to the job. She squeaked when Mycroft pulled himself to his full height and locked his haughty stare on her. “Please lead me to the Holmes table.”

Amelia nodded emphatically and silently led him to a table in the back, hiding her face behind sheets of her thin brown hair. The table was empty. He sat down, perplexed, dismissing Amelia with a nod of his head. Perhaps Gregory didn’t hold the same regard for punctuality as he did, he would have to take that into account in the future. No, he wouldn’t. This was merely a meal between acquaintances. There was no future. There couldn’t be. Obvious. He tapped absently on the table. Had he forgotten already? Had he thought better of the decision? Had Gregory reached the conclusion that this was a mistake, as Mycroft had? Was he being stood up?

He absentmindedly ordered a 2008 Aristos Duque d’A Cabernet, without a glance at the wine menu or the waiter. He unfolded his napkin and placed it on his lap.

 

Forty-five minutes later, he was running his middle finger around the rim of his now empty wine glass. The rest of the bottle remained untouched. _He’ll be here any minute now._

 

An hour after that, he had folded his napkin into a swan, quite realistic too. _Maybe he was shot._

 

Thirteen minutes passed. Mycroft confirmed with Anthea that Gregory had indeed not been shot. _Where is he?_

 

Another fifty-seven minutes later, the restaurant was doing final orders. Mycroft placed his crumpled napkin on his pristine plate, paid and tipped exorbitantly for his barely touched wine, and walked calmly to the exit. _He was never planning to come._

The car was once again idling outside as Mycroft exited the restaurant. He opened the door and was about to slip in and retreat to his flat to implement a new sock index when a cab came squealing up to the curb behind him.

“Mycfroft, wait!”

He didn’t turn towards the voice and he cursed the warmth spreading through his chest, the sudden lightness he felt. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. He was calm. He was in control. He would not get his hopes up again.

“Detective Inspector,” There was no emotion in Mycroft’s voice as he turned slowly towards the silver-haired man which may have been a mistake as Gregory was glistening rather deliciously, soaked head to toe. Gregory stiffened at his tone. Definitely a mistake, the way his shirt was clinging to his musculature was positively sinful. His mouth quirked and he fought to keep the roughness out of his voice as his mouth went dry, “Interesting choice. Not sure I’d have gone for the wet dog look. Definitely not the wet dog smell.”

Gregory ran a hand over his head, squeezing water from his hair. Mycroft fought off a smirk and raised an eyebrow as Gregory squelched towards him. His voice was soft when he spoke. “I’m sorry. There’s no excuse I--”

“Your job is a perfectly valid excuse to miss hastily made dinner plans with a short-term acquaintance. I’m sure we’ll all sleep more soundly in our beds after you chased that robber, no--” Mycroft tilted his head, “--arsonist, into the Thames.”

Gregory ignored most of his statement and hurt flashed in his eyes as he continued forward. “Short-term acquaintances? Is that what you think we are?”

“We introduced ourselves yesterday. We’ve known each other little more than 24 hours. The term fits.”

“Yes. 24 hours during which we cried and fucked, both of us.” Gregory was crossing the line into his personal space, Mycroft only just managed to prevent himself from taking a step back. “If that’s what short-term acquaintances do, then I need to get a few more of those.” He was angry. There was a hardness in his voice now.

Mycroft swallowed thickly and let out an exaggerated sigh. “Is there something I can help you with, Detective Inspector?”

Mycroft looked on perplexedly as Gregory closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. When he opened his mouth, his voice was quiet, low and even. “I know you waited for me to show up, and I’m three hours late, so don’t act like this means nothing to you. You agreed to go to dinner with me. I’m going to have a shower and then we’ll be ordering in. You like Chinese, yeah?”

Mycroft could not hold back his smile, the warmth in his heart was reaching inferno levels, but he rolled his eyes and turned back to his car. “Fine, I’ll--”

“We’re going to my place. I’m getting a proper shower out of this. And I can’t eat takeaway on Wedgewood china in a flat on Wilton Crescent.”

Mycroft looked appalled and confused. “My china is Waterford, and what’s wrong with Wilton Crescent?”

Gregory laughed heartily. “Nothing at all, Mr. Jeeves.” _So that’s what he looks like laughing. Okay then._

They clambered over each other and into the car, Mycroft forcing Gregory to sit on spread newspaper. The ride was very quick, but Gregory still managed to soak through the paper and into the seats. He laughed again at Mycroft’s clenching jaw. Mycroft battled his returning smile into submission and glared. Gregory just chuckled softly and patted his cheek.

Mycroft poked awkwardly around the flat as Gregory showered. It was a nice place. Comfortable. Relaxed. He stood looking out the window at the darkened square, listening to the hissing of the old pipes and tapping Dvorak behind his back.

_I could get used to this._


	8. Chapter 8

Mycroft awoke, shivering and cold. He reached out for Gregory’s body heat but found the bed empty. He sat up, looking around the unfamiliar room with bleary eyes. Light streamed through the cracked door and Mycroft winced at the painful brightness. He got up and padded to the door, locating a tartan dressing gown on the way and curling his freezing body within it.

He slipped, squinting, into the intensely lit kitchen where Gregory was standing, back tense, in a freshly laundered work suit talking quietly on the phone.

“Gregory?” Mycroft’s voice was coarse from sleep and he cleared his throat.

Gregory spun around, smiling tenderly when he caught sight of Mycroft in his dressing gown. Mycroft sent him a questioning look.

“Yeah, okay. I’m on my way.” Mycroft yawned as Gregory hung up the phone. “Did I wake you?”

Mycroft shook his head as Gregory wrapped muscular arms around his thin waist and shivered at the sudden heat. “I was cold.”

“Well, that I believe. Barely a scrap of meat on you. Let’s get you some more blankets, yeah?”

Mycroft pulled Gregory closer and raised his eyebrows. “I think a little extra body heat would be sufficient.” Gregory’s face tightened. Mycroft felt a sinking in his stomach. He stepped out of Gregory’s embrace.  “Gregory?”

He sighed. “There’s been a murder. It shares some similarities with a string of unsolved murders in the late 90’s. I have to go.”

Mycroft straightened, voice going cold. “Oh, of course.”

“Myc, believe me, if I could stay in bed with you and your gorgeous bum, I would, but...” Mycroft merely nodded, taking a step back, crossing his arms and gripping tightly at his biceps. “Myc.” Mycroft turned and headed for the bed. But Gregory grabbed his elbow and pulled him so his back was flush against Gregory’s chest. “Oh, no you don’t.”

Mycroft didn’t struggle against the arms holding him. “Let me go.”

“Mycroft.” Gregory buried his face between Mycroft’s shoulder blades. “I’ll be back soon, I promise.”

Mycroft slumped, all strength leaving his body. He was carried back to bed and curled into a ball, only vaguely aware of the weight of blankets being placed over and around him. Barely noticing the kiss on his forehead, he stared blankly across the room, flinching at the sound of the door. He lay in the same position for more than an hour before he fell asleep, a tear running down his cheek.

 

He was still alone when he woke up three hours and twenty-three minutes later, so he grabbed Gregory’s pillow and hugged it to his chest. He didn’t want to think about how ridiculous he was being, stubbornly refused to acknowledge how moronic the emotions he felt were, steadfastly ignored the fact they were there in the first place. Still curled in a ball, he buried his nose in the white cotton, eyes glued to the door.

 

The sunlight slid slowly across the floor, and still Mycroft lay there. Anthea called twice around midday and was ignored. She didn’t call again. Mycroft was in a world alone, the shards of his being painful once again. Sunset came, and darkness surrounded him. He clutched the pillow tightly and fell into a fitful sleep.

 

He felt the mattress sink beside him, a warmth embracing him, a balm soothing him. The tension in his body eased as an arm snaked around his waist. His sleep became peaceful.


	9. Chapter 9

He’s so beautiful when he sleeps. Absolutely gorgeous. All the anger and hurt, the emotional turmoil hidden beneath years of careful schooling, it all disappears when he’s lost in dreams. The tension and pain just melts away.

It’s probably strange that I watch him sleep so often. He’d probably be appalled. It’s a little creepy.

But he’s just so distractingly beautiful.

Stunning.

Yeah, it's definitely creepy.

You left quite the mess when you fell. There were a lot of people who would have bet good money that no one would mourn you. They’d have won.

You didn’t leave mourners. You left broken remnants, splinters of people that no one even bothers to sweep up.

Mrs. Hudson says John’s barely functioning, how she can tell when she never leaves the flat anymore, I wouldn’t know. Molly’s more skittish than ever, almost threw her post-mortem at Dimmock last time he walked in. I can’t look Donovan, or Anderson for that matter, in the eye anymore. Their relationship met its demise with you.

But I’d say the biggest mess you left is lying here, curled in my arms, clutching on to a man he barely knows because he can’t stand being left behind anymore.

You left a man who has felled nations and built empires cracking in the cold, shattering into pieces, clinging to the sharp edges of himself.

I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive you for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me. Two chapters in a day. Nailed it.  
> Also, started writing some new stuff on this one today.  
> I'm on a fucking roll.


	10. Chapter 10

Mycroft woke slowly and smiled, his heart clenching at the image before him. Gregory sat in the bed in navy blue pyjama pants and a gray t-shirt, one leg upright, bent at the knee, the other tucked beneath it. There were a couple of files around him and one leaning against his knee. He was chewing on the end of a blue ball-point pen, his hair sticking up at all angles. And balanced on his nose was a delicate pair of silver reading glasses.

Mycroft moved forward, burying his face in Gregory’s hip, attempting to hide from the burgeoning swell of emotion.

Gregory combed his fingers through Mycroft’s hair, scratching at his scalp as Mycroft grasped at Gregory’s ankle, his thumb lightly circling the bone. “Good morning, love.”

Mycroft’s thumb halted abruptly at the pet name, his eyes wide, heart thundering wildly in his chest. If Gregory noticed, he said nothing, content to contemplate the file in front of him and run a soothing thumb along Mycroft’s ear. Mycroft lay still, repeating the word over and over in his mind. Gregory took his hand away to flip through another file, taking a couple notes on a steno pad by his left hip, and then replaced his hand at the base of Mycroft’s skull, rubbing gently, unconsciously. Mycroft turned his head, nosing under the edge of Gregory’s t-shirt, placing a soft kiss on the warm skin. He felt Gregory’s responding squeeze to his shoulder and smiled before returning to his previous position.

“Good morning. You’re wearing glasses.”

Gregory snorted. “Very astute, Mr. Holmes. It seems with age, vision is the first thing to go.”

“You’re hardly old.” Gregory did not respond, choosing instead to circle each vertebra in Mycroft’s long and elegant neck before returning to the file on his knee. “You were gone a long time,” Mycroft continued almost to himself, voice barely above a whisper.

Gregory sighed, pulling his glasses off with his thumb and closing the file. He tossed both on to the bedside table and curled his body down and around Mycroft’s taller, thinner frame. Mycroft allowed himself to be pulled in, his head tucked beneath Gregory’s chin, his knees intertwined with Gregory’s.

“I was.” Gregory kissed his forehead. “But I came back.”

“Well, you could hardly avoid it; it is your flat after all.” Mycroft’s voice was sad, yet strangely condescending.

Gregory kissed his forehead again. “I would have gone to Yakutsk if that’s where you were.”

“Why?”

Gregory didn’t have an answer. He opened his mouth and closed it again. He didn’t know what he was feeling. He knew only that he had never felt it before and likely never would again. He tilted Mycroft’s head up and kissed him slowly, taking his time, using his mouth to convey the emotions that could not be described rationally with any words he knew.

Mycroft watched Gregory’s face as he fought against his mind for an answer to Mycroft’s question. He accepted the languid, purposeful kiss with great pleasure, and he hummed in contentment when Gregory pulled away at last, pressing their foreheads together.

The door to the bedroom opened and Anthea swept in, her heels clicking on the floor, her fingers clicking on the keys. Gregory jumped back, knocking files to the floor and managing to roll off the bed. Anthea dropped a suit unceremoniously on top of Mycroft, still typing.

“Sir, you’re needed in the Koreas again.”

Mycroft sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “What is it this time?”

“Apparently, Lee Myung-bak is threatening to invade.”

“That’s the sixth time this year. Can’t he just leave them alone?”

“Would you like him overthrown, sir?”

Mycroft waved her off. “No, no. He’s a necessary evil, unfortunately.”

Anthea leaned casually against the night stand ignoring both men completely in favour of the flawless game of Angry Birds she had going on her phone. Mycroft rose from the bed, unabashedly naked, and began the arduous process of suiting up. Gregory swallowed thickly, bizarrely aroused at the sight of Mycroft’s skin disappearing beneath the gorgeous gray wool. He eyed the curves and angles of Mycroft’s long body from the floor as Mycroft shrugged into the matching waistcoat. How would it feel to take Mycroft’s cock in his mouth with that suit still covering his thighs? How would it feel if Mycroft were to fuck him up against a wall in that suit? How would it feel to utterly ruin such an expensive and quality garment?

Mycroft was surprised to see Gregory now holding his jacket, fingering the wool, still sitting on the floor. Gregory?” Gregory looked up, eyes wide and gulped audibly, pupils dilated. Mycroft smirked. “I’ll be needing that jacket, my dear.”

Gregory stood and walked over to Mycroft, licking his lips as he helped him with the jacket. He smoothed the back of the jacket more than was strictly necessary and turned Mycroft around to adjust his tie. Mycroft allowed Gregory’s fingers to glide over the smooth purple silk as he tucked and tightened the tie around Mycroft’s neck. Mycroft placed his hands on Gregory’s waist and pulled him in for another kiss, this one a delicious slide of lips, a heated twist of tongues, deep and sensual.

They parted with a soft pop and a light gasp, both reeling slightly, breathing heavily. Mycroft kissed the tip of Gregory’s nose and hugged him closer. “I’m afraid I have to go now.”

Gregory nodded slowly, a small sadness mingling with the arousal in his eyes. “I miss you,” he whispered, tracing Mycroft’s brow with his fingers. Mycroft pressed a chaste kiss to his palm.

“I miss you too.”


	11. Chapter 11

I don’t think I’ve ever been this lonely. Even lying in my bed knowing my wife was out somewhere fucking someone else, there was a strange sort of acceptance. But this? This is cloying. I am lifeless. A stained-glass mockery of a man, flattened, exposed to the harsh elements, capable only of breaking and dimming the light.

And when I’m alone, I’m left to sit and stew in my regrets. I think back on everything I could have done, things I should have done. I think about my marriage that should have ended long before it did. I think about the drinking and smoking that I could have avoided, the exercise I should really do. I think about you. You’re always there, looming over me, a stone-cold statue of bitter guilt.

And he was a balm I didn’t deserve, a treatment for grief I didn’t know existed, one I would never have dared to hope for, let alone ask for.

I’ve known him for all of five days. He’s been gone for two.

And I am falling apart.

Again.


	12. Chapter 12

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, tapping impatiently at the table top, left ankle over his right knee. He rolled his neck, almost groaning in frustration as the phone continued to ring.

A muddled voice came through the line, “Hello?”

“Oh God, I’ve missed your voice.” Mycroft sat forward, uncrossing his legs, clenching his eyes closed, palms now flat on the table.

“I’ve missed your everything, love.” Mycroft could almost hear the grin in Gregory’s voice.

“It shouldn’t be possible. To miss someone this much.” He laid his forehead against the cool wood, revelling in the mere presence of Gregory on the line.

“I know.” Mycroft listened to the breaths coming through the phone and choked back a dry sob. It transformed into a bark of laughter as Gregory continued, “So, what are you wearing?”

“A suit, though I can’t see why it matters,” Mycroft laughed.

“Could you describe it? I want to picture you. I need to see you.”

Mycroft smiled. “Absolutely. Anything for you.” He looked over his suit slowly before he began. “It’s another gray suit, slightly slimmer fitting than the last one. The wool is gorgeous, supple, warm. Standard white shirt. An absolutely stunning waistcoat that hugs my torso in a pale imitation of your arms. The tie is a coral silk, smoother than the clouds of heaven, I’d imagine. Is that enough? Or would you like me to describe how I thought of you this morning as I showered, as I shaved, as I sheathed myself in woven finery?” The breaths coming across the wire now were heavy and shaking. Mycroft continued, “This is the cruellest torture, to hear you and not be able to see you, or touch you, or hold you. I want to breathe you in. Always.”

Gregory whimpered quietly, “Hurry home, love.”

“Fast as my brolly will take me.” He heard a faint click and placing the phone screen down on the table, he leaned forward, pushing his brow into his fingertips. He sighed, adjusting his suit as dignitaries from both sides of the line streamed in to the meeting room.

One look at them, clenched fists, clenched jaws, all hard lines and tension, and Mycroft knew that there would be no agreement today. He sat at the head of the table and rubbed firmly at his temples, resigning himself to another long night of subtle string pulling and underhanded influencing.


	13. Chapter 13

He’s still not back. It’s been three weeks. And I’m surviving on a five minute phone call every four days. And as I wait, I wallow in grief and depression and guilt, oh Christ, the guilt.

I saw John yesterday.  And Jesus, Sherlock, I almost didn’t recognise him.

He was stick thin and limping again, cheeks sunken and eyes dull. He looked like he was falling into himself. He nearly forgot who I was.

And this may be selfish, but I wanted him to be okay without you, not because he’s a good friend who didn’t deserve to be left behind, but because it would mean that my failing hadn’t made that much of a difference.

But this is worse than I expected, because John is nowhere near okay, because John may never be okay, because the man John loved, though he may never have said it out loud, the man he loved, you, is gone.

You’re gone.

So, he will never recover, and neither will I, because I caused that.

Me.

And when he walked away, and I was left alone with my memories of you, I walked to the nearest bar and drank myself silly, praying the whole time, to a God whose existence I stopped believing in over fifteen years ago, that your brother would be home soon.

Because my fragile reality is creaking and splintering under the pressure of carrying the dead, carrying my kills, and the souls forever entangled and doomed with theirs.

I need him. I need the pain to go away.


	14. Chapter 14

Mycroft was glad to be breathing English air once again. He wanted nothing more than to head to Gregory’s and wrap him in his arms, but he couldn’t. There was something he needed to do first. Something he’d put off for too long.

He walked slowly through the cemetery, the moisture from the grass clinging to the hems of his trousers, rain softened earth squishing beneath his feet. He squatted in front of the black headstone, wiping grass and dirt from the thin gold letters that spelled his brother’s name. The tears came silently, slowly spilling from his eyes, rolling down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry, little man.” He sobbed at the childhood nickname coming so naturally to his lips all these years later. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve protected you. I should’ve been there, and I wasn’t... I’m so very sorry.”

There was a silence, permeated every so often by a quiet sniff, a small sob, as Mycroft lost himself in old memories and fresh grief. He wiped his tears, patting his face dry with his floral handkerchief. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. He stood, lit it and took a small drag, considering the curling smoke for a few minutes, watching the glowing embers consume the paper. After a few minutes, he left, the half-smoked cigarette smouldering on the headstone.

As he slipped into the car, a black gloved hand lifted the slowly dying cigarette and inhaled deeply. It was crushed beneath a well-shod toe and the strange man disappeared into the growing darkness in a billow of coat.


	15. Chapter 15

Mycroft quietly picked Gregory’s lock, slipping silently and surely into the darkened flat. He crept to the bedroom, just wanting to see Gregory’s sleeping face, feel his warmth, breathe his scent.

The bed was empty.


	16. Chapter 16

Mycroft sighed dejectedly as he shouldered off his jacket and loosened his tie. He sat and untied his two-tone leather shoes, slipping them off his feet, stretching his aching muscles, smiling absently as he watched the gray diamonds on his socks dance in the streetlamp glow peeking through the windows. His toes, however, cloaked as they were in a deep green, nearly disappeared in the faint light. He stuck his fingers into the heels of his shoes and padded lightly to the closet in his foyer, placing the shoes in the empty slot, and pausing to admire the neutral rainbow. He trudged to the bathroom to complete his pre-bed regime, sighing again when he realised he would be sleeping alone tonight. _Twenty-three days in a row._ It shouldn’t have bothered him as much as it did; he’d slept alone for years before that, but since he’d met Gregory...

He was coming to realise that his dependence on this man was bordering on unhealthy, never mind being unnaturally quick, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Gregory was the oasis in his desert of blame. He was the one person who didn’t look at him with accusation in their eyes, someone who could shelter him from his own anger and frustration and grief. And Mycroft needed him, desperately.

He was sure that Gregory had a valid reason for being absent; Mycroft hadn’t let him know he was on his way back. Even if he had, police work was full of unexpected circumstances. It didn’t stop him from feeling unwanted, rejected, and disappointed.

He brushed his teeth and walked to his bedroom, pushed the door open roughly, and started pulling off his waistcoat, hanging it in the closet. When he finished, he moved his hands to his wrists, undoing the silver cufflinks and placing them in the box on the back of the door. He turned towards the bed, unbuttoning his shirt, and his movements ceased abruptly. It was occupied.

He stared at the man curled in his sheets. His eyes swept over the shape of his silhouette and locked on Gregory’s hazel ones, shining green in the moonlight. Mycroft lit up with a bright smile and he took a couple of steps forward before he noticed the tear tracks marring Gregory’s rugged face. Mycroft’s eyes widened, his heart clenched. He crossed the room, kneeling by the bed, taking in every detail he could of this man. Gregory didn’t move, but his eyes followed Mycroft. He was unshaven, at least three days worth, his hands were shaking, and every so often another tear would join its fallen comrades. And as their eyes met again, Gregory’s body began to shake with repressed sobs. They broke forth, echoing in the near empty room. Mycroft pulled Gregory’s head to his chest, his knuckles white with the strength of his hold, and as Gregory clutched at his shirt, rumpling the perfect creases in the cotton, Mycroft made small shushing noises, gripping even tighter at the shuddering mass in his arms.

“It’s all my fault. He’s broken and it’s my bloody fault.” Gregory’s voice was muffled by Mycroft’s shoulder, but he’d said similar words so often in the past four weeks that he could have recognised the words through ten feet of lead. He pulled back and kissed Gregory. It was hard and brief, a bruising press of lips, before Mycroft was looking back down on him, anger flashing in his eyes.

“You listen to me right now, yeah? It was _not_ your fault.”

“But--”

“No.” Mycroft gripped the sides of Gregory’s face even harder. “No. It was not your fault. It was NOT your fault. Sher--” Mycroft’s voice broke and he cleared his throat. “If it’s anyone’s fault it’s Moriarty’s. And it’s mine.” He shook his head as Gregory began to protest. “I gave Moriarty everything he needed to destroy Sherlock. I may as well have held a gun to Sherlock’s head myself. So, believe me when I say, it is absolutely, incontrovertibly not your fault.”

And this time, Gregory kissed him, crushing their mouths together in a much slower version of their previous kiss. Gregory’s tears continued to fall, Mycroft’s coming to join, mingle, merge. They kissed, sorrow and strength feeding off of one another, until neither knew who was being supported and who was doing the supporting.

Mycroft knees began to ache, but he did not break from the kiss. He tried to adjust his position, but Gregory, feeling the changes in angle, pulled Mycroft onto the bed. Their kisses became languorous, and when the tears had ebbed, Gregory gave him one last peck and rolled over. Mycroft snuggled up behind him. He entwined their fingers and kissed the base of Gregory’s skull lightly.

“How did you get into my flat anyway?”

Gregory chuckled, now playing with their connected hands. “You’re not the only one who can pick locks, you know.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Yes, but should you have tried to break into my flat, you wouldn’t be nearly this coherent right now, as my multiple security measures would’ve kicked in leaving you a mindless lump on the front stoop. So, how’d you do it?” He poked Gregory in the side.

Gregory giggled, squirming away from the finger. “I’ll never tell.”

“It was Anthea, wasn’t it?” Mycroft was deadpan, halting his hands, one still tangled with Gregory’s, the other resting on his waist.

“Yeah. She’s lovely, by the way.” Sarcasm dripped from Gregory’s voice.

Mycroft sighed. “She’s very efficient.”

Greg smiled indulgently and patted lightly at Mycroft’s hand. “I’m sure, my love. I’m sure.” He yawned widely, curling back into Mycroft’s chest. Mycroft kissed the corner of his jaw and smiled as he drifted off to sleep.

He stood from the bed, careful not to jostle Gregory, and finished removing his suit. He slipped into an old pair of pyjama pants and his warmest dressing gown and stepped out onto the terrace, breathing in the cool, crisp air.

He glanced back over his shoulder before pulling a carton of cigarettes from where they lay hidden in his neighbour’s potted shrubbery. He lit one and took a long drag, closing his eyes, and exhaling into the black night. He leaned against the railing, tapping Chopin on the cold metal.

He scanned the street, not looking for anything in particular, but noticing everything.

There was a false moving van two doors down, probably housing foreign agents sent to do reconnaissance on the Singapore High Commission. He rolled his eyes and took another draw. _What a waste of time._

There was a nurse in black scrubs walking around the corner, talking loudly on the phone to her sister. He released a string of perfect smoke rings. _Boring._

There was a man standing beneath the flickering streetlamp, long dark coat, collar flipped up around his ears. He squinted and leaned forward to get a better angle, but before he could get in position the lamp sputtered and went dark. When it returned, the man was gone.

“It’s a nice night.”

Mycroft jumped at the sound of Gregory’s voice, dropping his half-finished cigarette to the street below. He turned quickly, attempting nonchalance. Gregory raised an eyebrow from where he leaned against the doorframe. “Ah, Gregory. Indeed it is. Lovely. Yes.”

“Love--” Gregory stepped forward closing his hand over Mycroft’s biceps and squeezing gently. “--I think it’s time you quit.”

“I have quit.” Mycroft spoke quietly, not raising his eyes, and Gregory moved closer to hear him better. “I hadn’t had a cigarette in months. And then, about five weeks ago...”

 “I know, love. I know.” Gregory closed the remaining distance and hugged him. “Now come to bed, you’ll catch your death.”

With Gregory’s arms around him, Mycroft forgot about the man in the coat. But his subconscious had not let him go, the strange familiarity of the man haunted him, and even with Gregory lying next to him, his dreams were punctuated with blood splatter, empty woollen coats, flickering lights, and the cold lifeless face of his baby brother.


	17. Chapter 17

I love him. Fuck. I love him.

How did this happen? How in the bloody hell did this happen?

I met him at a wake, for Christ’s sake! Your wake.

And Jesus, I’ve known him for what? A month and a half now? How did this happen? HOW?

But, fuck me, it did. It certainly did...

He makes me happy when I shouldn’t be. Just being with him, thinking about him, teasing him. It’s more than I deserve. He’s a bright light, a brilliant sun shining through clear windows in a room filled with the darkest shadow.

And I love him. I bloody well love him.

God help me.


	18. Chapter 18

It had been two months to the day since Sherlock took the step from the rooftop of St. Bart’s. Seven weeks to the day since Mycroft had taken Gregory to bed. Three weeks and three days since Mycroft had realized how dreadfully he needed the Detective Inspector. Two weeks and six days since Mycroft had quit smoking, again. One week and one day since Mycroft had discovered that half his closet was occupied by Gregory’s things, half his drawers by Gregory’s clothes, half his bathroom counter by Gregory’s toiletries, and half of Gregory’s flat by his. And two days since he’d realized he didn’t mind.

Mycroft was holed up in his study, poring over bank statements, all accounts opened under false names within the last two months. Jeremy Escott, Basil Smith, John Altamont, Robert Vernet, Victoria Watson-Sigerson. The money in these accounts was unusually active and never in use at the same time. Trips for these people had been booked all over the world, one flew into Taipei, another would pick up there and take a train out, headed to Moscow. It was clear they were connected, but he couldn’t grasp the pattern. Who were these people? And why had Sherlock willed money to each of them?

A half empty decanter of brandy sat on the desk next to him. He muttered quietly to himself, twitching occasionally as if he’d seen something out of the corner of his eye.

He didn’t look up when Gregory walked in, didn’t notice as Gregory closed the decanter and put it back on its own table. He flinched when Gregory bent and laid a kiss on his temple, hearing the small sigh of disappointment and regretting the motion. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice rough from the alcohol, “I’m sorry.”

Gregory crouched beside his chair, taking his hands and kissing the backs. “What’s wrong, my love? You’ve been more than a bit distracted lately.”

Mycroft raised his eyes to Gregory’s, a warm shining brown that was reminiscent of early spring earth. He felt his heart swell as Gregory gave him a small understanding smile, sentiment coursing through his veins. The world slowed down around them and the noise in his brain quieted. He lied through his teeth. “It’s just work. Preventing global war and destruction is harder than it looks.”

And with the lie, the serenity ended. Mycroft’s inner turmoil became a secret hell. While Gregory smiled and cooked dinner, Mycroft held on tightly as the storm raged in his head. Glass was cracking, splintering, shattering. He could hear the fabric of his reality ripping, shredding. And when utter destruction had been rent, a deathly quiet took over. In the silence, pure whiteness filled his mind. Jeremy, Basil, John Robert, Victoria, Jeremy, Basil, John, Robert, Victoria. The names coursed through his thoughts, repeating over an over as images of bloody sidewalks and strangers in long coats flashed by. Mycroft’s mind filled with the startling hazel eyes of his lover once again as he tried to block out the noiselessness. Deep green tinged with brown was interrupted by a flash of opalescent blue. Jeremy. Mycroft’s swirling blindness lifted. Basil. Everything fell into place. John. The fabric re-stitched itself. Robert. Time was flying in reverse. Victoria. Destruction was being righted. Sherlock. Glass became whole once more. Sherlock was alive.


	19. Chapter 19

Mycroft leaned calmly against a tree. To a casual passerby, he would merely look like he was waiting, but at this angle he could not be seen by anyone visiting his brother’s grave. He knew Sherlock was in town. Victoria had been aboard a 727 from Mozambique that had landed in Heathrow this morning. Mycroft didn’t know why, but he had a strong feeling, one Gregory would most likely call instinct, that Sherlock would be here. It was morbid, no doubt, but this stone was Sherlock’s only standing connection to London; this is where everyone came to commune with him, and as much as Sherlock had claimed to be above it all, Mycroft knew he craved the connections.

He heard the rustle of footsteps on grass, the sweep of a long coat, the scrape of a shoe as its owner crouched. He stepped from his hiding spot, his view falling upon the shocked face of his baby brother, no longer hidden by dark curls. Sherlock’s hair had been shorn and dyed, now a ruddy brown. He held in his hand the last note Gregory had left at the stone.

“Those don’t belong to you, Sherlock.” Mycroft swirled his umbrella, a sigh in his voice.

Sherlock stood. “They’re addressed to me.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and approached, slowly, cautiously, not willing to blink, afraid Sherlock’s image would waiver and vanish, another haunting dream. “How? And, for Christ’s sake, why?”

“The Detective Inspector is rubbing off on you, I see.” Sherlock smirked and opened the note, his glance raking over the words.

Mycroft snapped, “Answer the question, Sherlock.”

Sherlock groaned in frustration, slipping the note into his pocket. “I don’t have time for this Mycroft. There are things I have to take care of. No one was supposed to know I was alive.”

“He threatened you with something.” Mycroft tilted his head, narrowing his eyes.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Stunning deduction, that.”

“Not your reputation, as that’s already destroyed, and whatever it was, you’re still afraid of losing.” Mycroft moved closer with each word. Sherlock’s eyes darted around, scanning the surrounding area. He gulped loudly, and bit his lip, not meeting Mycroft’s eyes. He nodded slowly. “Could it be that this is what the younger Holmes looks like when he allows his heart to rule his mind?”

“He loves you. Did you know that?”

Mycroft’s eyes widened in surprise. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He tried to turn away, but Sherlock grabbed his shoulder.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. Sentiment.” Sherlock eyes were wild, filled with more depth of emotion than Mycroft could remember seeing. “We pretend we don’t understand it. Why muddle our minds with emotion when logic is clean and concise? But what would you do if a madman threatened him? Threatened Anthea? Threatened me?” Mycroft vision went red and his stomach churned uncomfortably. He tried to wriggle free, but Sherlock tightened his grasp. “Would you jump off a building for him? Because I did. For him. For Mrs. Hudson. For John. They’re alive, because of me. So, please, stop acting like you don’t care. Stop hiding behind your words and your rationality. Stop throwing Mummy’s old adages at me. Because I don’t buy them, and neither do you.” Sherlock took a shaky breath. “Caring is the only advantage we have against an unjust world.”

“Your deductions are flawed. He doesn’t love me. He wouldn’t be near me if you hadn’t jumped off that building. He clings to me because he blames himself for you. For your downfall. Obviously unnecessarily, as you’re still alive. It was all a lie.” Mycroft wrenched his shoulder free, and stepped back. “You’re losing your touch, Sherlock.”

“I didn’t deduce his love, brother.” Sherlock sat on his own tombstone and looked at Mycroft sadly. “I read it, in his own hand.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and turned away. “You’re wrong. And as soon as he knows the truth, he’ll walk away, no longer tied by grief and circumstance.”

Sherlock looked at his feet, but spoke in earnest, “You can’t tell him. No one can know, Mycroft.”

“You would have me lie to him? Let him wallow in unrelenting grief?” Mycroft shook his head in disbelief. “I can’t lie, Sherlock. Not to him. Not about this.” He pointed a shaking finger, gesturing to all of Sherlock. “He doesn’t deserve this. Any of it.”

“Ah... I see.” Sherlock stood slowly, smiling knowingly. “You love him, too.”

Mycroft straightened and adjusted his jacket. “Nonsense. He’s a good man. He shouldn’t have to go through this.”

“No, he shouldn’t have to. But he will. You think this is easy for me? To catch glimpses of the people I left behind? To watch them suffer? John’s using that damn cane again. You think this doesn’t hurt me too? But they’ll kill him. All of them. So, I need you. I need you to do this for me. Please?” Mycroft didn’t look at him. “My, please?”

And just like that Mycroft was 10. _Captaining a pirate ship._

_“MyMy, can I hold the parrot?”_

_Mycroft grinned and turned to where Sherlock was attempting to fashion himself a peg-leg. Mycroft scooped up the three-year-old, swinging him high into the air. “Maybe you should be the parrot,” he said as he sat Sherlock on his shoulders._

_Sherlock giggled and clapped as they ran around the yard, happy, as they always were, just to be together._

It was the nickname that broke him, the subtle reminder that they had once been friends, his resolve to out his brother crushed beneath nostalgia, sentiment, love. He nodded deliberately, feeling the shards of his heart sinking into his stomach, hating Sherlock, hating himself, for what he was about to do, for what he had to do.

When he finally looked up, eyes brimming with unshed tears, Sherlock was gone.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that mature rating? It's because of this chapter.  
> It's to do with sex.
> 
> Also, I'm sorry.

Mycroft sat calmly in his armchair, a comfortable fire going in the grate. He nursed a small scotch, rising and placing it on the side table when he heard Gregory’s footsteps on the stoop. He let Gregory hang his overcoat and umbrella, still dripping with rainwater, before he pushed him up against the wall, slipping his leg between Gregory’s thighs and kissing him, palms flat against the wall beside his head.

Gregory grunted in surprise, but responded enthusiastically, hands coming to Mycroft’s waist, pulling him closer as his tongue ran delicately along Gregory’s own. Gregory’s face was flushed and he moaned quietly when Mycroft pulled away, running kisses along his jaw and nipping at his ear. Mycroft felt the shudder that ran through Gregory’s body as his tongue traced the shell of his ear, felt the grinding of a semi-erect penis on his thigh, felt the tightening of Gregory’s hands on his waist. He whispered, his voice low and rumbling, “I’d quite like you to fuck me.”

Gregory’s eyes widened, pupils dilating, as he smirked deliciously. Spinning Mycroft, he ground their hips together firmly, pushing his lover’s back into the unyielding bricks. “As you wish.”

Mycroft kissed him again. Gregory’s hand migrated downward to the fullness of Mycroft’s bum, squeezing before he lifted his lover. Mycroft, sucking Gregory’s lower lip, wrapped his long legs around Gregory’s waist. He was being pushed into the wall again, and he moaned, forehead falling against forehead as Gregory rutted into his pelvis.

_This man. This man is perfect._ Mycroft placed feather-light kisses along Gregory’s brow. His back left the wall, and Mycroft felt the muscles in Gregory’s back ripple as he took on the extra weight. They were moving, Gregory sucking on his collarbone as he took one step after another, up the stairs, into the bedroom.

He was placed on the bed, Gregory’s hands running over the sleek wool and pressed cotton that covered his body, worshipping the curves, paying homage to the angles. Each button was undone by sure hands, revealing his skin inch by inch. _He’s going to hate me._ Mycroft closed his eyes, trying to lose himself in the sensations, trying to hush the voice in his head, the cursing, sputtering, angry voice. _The truth_.

He lifted his hips as hands tugged at his trousers. A tongue slipped into his navel as his pants were removed as well. His breaths were shaky, his fists clenched, his mind screaming. _Please, don’t leave me._   Gregory nosed at the base of Mycroft’s cock, his legs spreading slightly of their own accord, but when a broad stripe was licked from balls to tip, Mycroft’s thighs clenched, his whole body tightening. And then Gregory was kissing him, holding him close as he shook.

“Myc? Myc, what’s the matter?” Gregory was endearingly confused, and Mycroft’s heart fluttered.

He ran his fingers down the side of Gregory’s face, tracing the outline, memorizing the shapes. _I miss you already._ He kissed Gregory slowly, pouring every ounce of emotion he had in his body into the connection, taking his time to devote himself to the man whose trust he was knowingly destroying. He lied again. “Nothing, my dear. Now, fuck me like you mean it.” Gregory rose from the bed, undressing himself hurriedly. Mycroft heard the soft click of the lube being opened, the airy squirt as it was squeezed onto fingers.

“Hands and knees, Mr. Holmes,” Gregory growled, and Mycroft’s cock twitched in response. He rolled himself over, pressing his narrow chest into the mattress, leaving his ass high in the air, watching Gregory over his shoulder. Gregory’s erection jutted from his body, his eyes were black, his chest flushed. There was a slick finger circling his hole, and Mycroft moaned before Gregory shoved two fingers in. Mycroft cried out at the intrusion, but the burning quieted his inner conflicts and he hissed as Gregory began spreading the fingers, opening him up, widening his entrance. As the sting lessened, Mycroft rocked back on the talented digits. He whimpered as Gregory slipped in a third finger, curling them in search of that elusive bundle of nerves. Mycroft pushed back, trying to help him along, but Gregory’s other hand gripped his hip in a strong grasp. Mycroft groaned as Gregory pressed his fingers in as far as they would go and kept them still. He tried to wriggle but tensed as Gregory pressed his middle finger down, circling lightly against his prostate. Mycroft gasped, arching his back, his knees widening.

Mycroft rubbed the tip of his prick, now leaking copiously, on the luxurious black sheets, revelling in the feel of the 1500 thread count Egyptian cotton over his engorged head. “Please...” He locked eyes with Gregory. _I need you._ “Pleeease.” Gregory leaned down to kiss him, ignoring the ache in his wrist as he continued to fuck Mycroft with his fingers. Gregory teased his prostate again and Mycroft growled, his fingers reaching for Gregory’s heavy cock. “I want to ride you. Now. I want to feel every twitch of your erection, feel the hardening before you come, feel the spurt as you find release.”

Gregory let out a piteous whine as Mycroft’s thumb traced over his slit. “Whatever you want.” Gregory was breathing heavily as he pulled his fingers from Mycroft’s arse causing his breath to catch in his throat. He laid down, penis standing proudly at attention. He spread his arms. “I’ll do anything for you.”

_Would you forgive me?_ He broke the eye contact and rolled from the bed, knees shaking, to grab the lube once more. He took his time slicking Gregory’s cock, stroking, manipulating his foreskin, fondling his balls. He placed his hands on Gregory’s shoulders, straddling his waist. He lowered himself gently until Gregory’s penis filled him completely. _I know you won’t, so I need you to love me until the end is here._

His chin fell forward to his chest, and he felt Gregory’s hand running soothingly along his hips. He rolled them shamelessly, and Gregory moaned, bucking slightly. Mycroft lifted himself and slammed back down, beginning a steady rhythm, punctuated by moans and gasps. Gregory spread his thighs and swept his thumbs in comforting circles on Mycroft’s pelvis, letting Mycroft take what he needed, enjoying the view of his bouncing cock.

Mycroft fought back tears as Gregory unconsciously gave him everything he was asking for. _I love you. God, I do. I love you._ Mycroft’s body shook, and Gregory pulled him down for a kiss, planting his feet and continuing Mycroft’s tempo, pushing up into his yielding body. Mycroft ran trembling fingers over Gregory’s pert nipples, sucking at his neck as the cadence faltered. _I love you. I’m sorry._

Mycroft gritted his teeth. “Gregory,” his voice was a low whine, “Fuck me.”

Gregory practically snarled as he rolled them over, pushing Mycroft’s knees to his chest, pounding into his delicious heat. Mycroft cried out, the intensity overwhelming. _I made you want this. You told me it was a bad idea._ Gregory licked his palm and began pumping Mycroft’s cock roughly. Mycroft’s back arched, and Gregory thrust harder, feeling the muscles begin to flutter around him. Mycroft closed his eyes as Gregory’s rhythm became erratic. _You were right._

He felt Gregory fill him, cock twitching, muscles shaking. Mycroft lowered his knees, letting Gregory fall onto him. He kissed Gregory’s forehead and rutted into the fist still circling his cock, bringing himself to the edge. Gregory swiped his thumb over the head of Mycroft’s penis, and Mycroft bit down on his shoulder to disguise the rough sob that was wrenched from his lips as he came. _I’m so sorry._

Greg’s speech was muffled, his face shoved into Mycroft’s chest, still unmoving after his orgasm. “Sorry? About what, love?”

Mycroft cursed internally. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. He sat up, pushing away from Gregory, and ran a hand through his hair. He sighed, deciding on at least partial honesty. “This. Us.”

If Mycroft had been looking, he would have seen Gregory’s face crumple, a picture of despair. “Oh.”

Mycroft continued, “I mean, we agreed at the beginning that this was a bad idea. And I kissed you anyway. Don’t you ever regret letting me? Do you ever wish you could go back and throw me across the room?”

“Do you?” Gregory asked quietly, not sure he wanted to know the answer.

“Never.” Mycroft’s whisper was almost inaudible.

Gregory pulled Mycroft back, curling him in his arms. “I have never--” he kissed Mycroft’s forehead “—not once, regretted--” his eyelids “—any of it.” He kissed Mycroft’s mouth, slowly, languidly, surely. “You are the best bad decision I have ever made, and I wouldn’t change it if I could.”

Mycroft kissed him again, frightened of the sliver of hope growing inside him. He knew that little slice of a chance, the possibility that Gregory could love him enough to forgive him, would one day turn into a shard of deadliest shrapnel, ripping through him. Gregory’s confession made reality all the more painful. He now held the heart of this man in his hands and he was preparing to throw it at the ground, and he had the audacity to hope, even minutely, that it would bounce high enough for him to catch again.

Mycroft lay, promising himself he wouldn’t cry, knowing he would fail, his shaking breaths easily overlooked as a result of the rather vigorous sex they’d completed earlier coupled with the enthusiastic snog. Gregory certainly didn’t seem to notice, laying kisses across Mycroft’s heaving chest. _Don’t leave me. Please._

Gregory grabbed his own pants from the floor and gave both of them a rough cleaning, before cuddling up behind Mycroft. He yawned, stroking Mycroft’s arms in what was intended to be a comforting gesture, but Mycroft was fighting back tears, cursing his own heart. Gregory pulled him closer, tucking them under the sheets. “I love you,” he said as he drifted off to sleep.

Mycroft cried silently. _I’m so sorry._


End file.
